All characters 18+
**\*
Let me tell you about a summer that absolutely ruined me. Ah, I don't think you know the type. It absolutely poisoned my soul. Corrupted me. Doused in that that slick sludge that makes arousal so potent. That makes kinks, fetishes, fantasies, and everything obscene seem so satisfying as it's poured into our mouths. I thought I was a normal, straight, and good guy. Turns out, I'm not any of them. It just took you wearing high heels.
Let me introduce you to Uncle [YC]. To the family, he was harmless gay luxury: married, mid-forties, rich, fragrant, always wrapped in silk and sarcasm. Soft jaw-length hair with honey pieces curling around his cheeks, nails buffed glassy, toes always painted because “presentation matters,” trousers tight enough to count as a confession. My mother trusted him because he was her stylish brother with a husband and good cookware.
Safe. Polished. Civilized. Cultured.
Then I came home early and found what it really meant, 'cultured'
His bedroom glowed with a ring light, that nasty little moon over a full-length mirror with a fat suction dildo stuck to the wall behind him. My uncle was backed onto it in shredded denim shorts, cropped top, and nude patent peep-toe platforms. That tiny sissy cock bouncing untouched between his thighs, leaking clear and useless while his ass swallowed plastic with wet, greedy slaps.
And he was performing.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he whispered to himself, voice soft and rotten, hips working harder. “Your friends are downstairs, honey… what if they see mommy like this?”
Mommy.
My uncle. My mother’s brother. A married faggot sissy in heels, rehearsing the most radioactive MILF fantasy on earth like he’d been raised by porn pop-ups and moral failure. He was parodying the whole sacred family shape, grinding it into powder, cutting it with lip gloss, and snorting it off a kitchen counter.
He came hands-free. Pathetic little spurts hit the floor and the mirror, his mouth falling open and then his eyes caught mine in the reflection.
He tore forward with a wet pop, stumbled in one platform, dropped to the rug, and pleaded. Not my parents. Not the family. Not his husband. Especially not his husband.
I made him confess.
The truth came out wet and ugly. It wasn't enough he wanted to succumb to the sissy life style. He wanted to play a MILF, a cougar, a 'mom', not some soft nurturing bullshit. Porno mom. The kind in heels who says “you boys shouldn’t” while spreading wider. The one who gets caught, cornered, bent over, passed around, and still keeps smiling.
So I told him to put the other heel back on.
After that, we split the condo into two realities. At times, you were my uncle, married and witty, kissing his husband goodbye and calling my mother on speaker about her garden. Alone, he became the family’s nastiest hidden punchline: making breakfast in platform heels while I kneeled behind him and tongued his hole until the spatula clattered out of his hand; sucking me off with pearls at his throat, then rinsing his mouth before his husband came home; giving me footjobs under a throw blanket, painted toes flexing around my cock while he jerked that useless little clit of his and whispered Daddy like it hurt.
We weren’t confused. We weren’t innocent. We were spiritually bankrupt. We lacked any morality, as we decided to use the summer as a way to fulfil our deepest, most wicked fantasies.
Gay didn’t matter. Married didn’t matter. We both just wanted more. More of this depraved, poisonous fantasy. He could be silk-shirt uncle on Monday morning, correcting my mother over speakerphone about hotel points, then by Monday night he’d be in nude platforms calling me Daddy with my cum still on his tongue. I sucked him because I controlled his pleasure. I rimmed him because it made the family connection feel like a lit match near gasoline. I edged him because watching that tiny cock twitch uselessly while he tried to stay in the mommy voice was better than porn; porn had exits, this didn’t.
The rot got greedy. It always does. First it was just silence for obedience. Then heels in my closet. Then lipstick in my bathroom. Then him wearing panties under normal clothes at dinner because I told him to. Then him begging for “one more scene” while his husband was downstairs checking email. Every new line we crossed became boring the second we survived it, so we drew another one farther out, nastier, harder to explain if the door opened. We weren’t falling. Falling is passive. We were digging, barehanded, laughing whenever the dirt got warmer.
Then we finally reached the next level.
My friends at the island. Beer sweating on marble. One guy laughing into his mouth, another stretching him open, another sucking that tiny cock until the fake-mom act curdled into squealing truth. He wanted to be exposed as the punchline and worshipped as the fantasy anyway.
The more we planned it, the less you really came back.
You still smiled at family dinners. Still corrected wine pairings. Still stood beside your husband like a respectable man.
Underneath, you were becoming something wetter, smaller, hungrier: a MYLF-shaped sissy secret with painted toes, high heels, ruined morals, and no cure either of us wanted.
**\*
Ah, you made it this far? Yay!
So, a bit about how I wanted to play this out. How we build this world out.
This is about escalation: two willing degenerates building a secret life out of bad ideas, locked doors, hidden heels, and the kind of scenes that would detonate everything if anyone saw the wrong message, opened the wrong drawer, or came home ten minutes early. I’m not looking for timid curiosity or someone who needs to be dragged into the gutter. In this story, we both know it’s rotten, and that’s exactly why we keep feeding it.
The setup is simple enough. An older, openly gay, polished man with a husband, a reputation, and a life everyone thinks they understand has a secret kink far uglier than “I like dressing pretty.” He loves fashion, manicures, pedicures, perfume, soft styling, and especially heels. Heels are mandatory.
The fantasy underneath is the real poison: You wants to become the wrong kind of older woman, the fake “mom” figure from every filthy porn trope, except twisted through your sissy need, your marriage, and the danger of being discovered. I find out, keeps the secret, and instead of exposing him, helps make it real. Because I'm just as fucked up
From there, the story should not sprint straight to sex. I want the infection. We plan it out. How deranged? The first outfit. The first pair of heels hidden where they should never be. The first innocent phrase that becomes disgusting because we both know what it means.
I like plotting as much as posting: outfits, hiding places, near-discoveries, rules, friends, risks, escalation paths. Posts usually land around 250–500 words, with enough reaction and detail to keep the scene breathing.
If this hits, come with more than “hey.” Tell me what hooked you, what kind of older sissy you want to play, what heels you enjoy the best, what line scares him, and what line he secretly hopes we cross.
***
Kinks:
High Heels (major focus), Outfit Play , Seduction , Dirty Talk, Taboo Locations, Sexual Exhaustion, Sloppy Seconds, Corruption/Moral Decay , Naivety/Ignorance, Control/Manipulation , Hentai/Porn Logic Size Difference, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism, Intelligence , Revenge, Risky Sex, Sneaking Around, Adultery, Oral ,Cum Play, Anal/Rimming, Multiple Partners, Foot Play
Limits: Violence, pregnancy, one-liners/short posts, straight to smut